


Wait for it

by BrilliantlyHorrid



Series: Helpless [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Descriptions of canon violence, Drinking, Drunk crying, F/M, I PROMISE THIS TIME, Post midseason finale, Regret, The Author Regrets Nothing, but also fluff, canon character death, not Grant Ward friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:16:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrilliantlyHorrid/pseuds/BrilliantlyHorrid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I get grieving, believe me, Phil. But if this is because of Ward?” Daisy leaned against the door jamb. “Don’t think for a second we didn’t want him dead too.” She shrugged, her shoulders heavy. “You’re just the only one who was able to finish the job.”</p><p>As she turned to leave Phil stood up. “Daisy.” She must have realized how pathetic he sounded, because she turned around. “Please.”</p><p>'Don’t leave me.'</p><p> </p><p>Post "Maveth," sequel to "Never be satisfied."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait for it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zauberer_sirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/gifts), [RowboatCop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/gifts), [notcaycepollard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/gifts), [Skyepilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/gifts).



> "Death doesn’t discriminate  
> Between the sinners  
> And the saints  
> It takes and it takes and it takes
> 
> And we keep living anyway  
> We rise and we fall  
> And we break  
> And we make our mistakes
> 
> And if there’s a reason I’m still alive  
> When everyone who loves me has died  
> I'm willing to wait for it."  
> \--Wait For It, Hamilton
> 
> For all the Skoulsoners whose days I ruined. (And Skyepilot who was all aboard the angst train.)

Daisy climbed the steps to Coulson’s office, the sound of her boots seeming to echo through the quiet of the base. It would be impossible, but she imagined Mack hearing her from his makeshift office down the hall, rolling his eyes maybe. Or frowning in concern.

It had been a week.

They knew he was _alive_ , obviously. Glimpses of him were caught occasionally when he needed to grab food or wander around the base. But he always returned to the office, as if he had never left. 

Daisy thinks he would turn it over to Mack, doesn’t think he would put up a big fight over it or lay claim to the space, if Mack asked. But Mack doesn’t ask. ‘ _I have what I need_ ,’ he says, and what she thinks that means is that Mack can’t bear to take Coulson’s space away from him. Because _he_ doesn’t have what he needs.

 _Which is where I come in,_ she thought. Pausing on the steps, she winced. _Not_ \-- she hated this treading carefully thing, it wasn’t her style. But the guy could be put off by the slightest thing lately so she needed to watch it. Keep it short and meaningful and don’t confuse him or he’ll flee.

 _Again_.

The last thing she needed to do was make him think she was dredging something up. _Something_ they had pointedly not mentioned. But given everything that had happened, that night in the kitchen seemed decades away.

Though she could swear sometimes she could hear that glass breaking in the back of her mind. So loud, strangely, among the rest of the chaos.

Knocking and getting no response (she wasn’t expecting one,) Daisy opened the door slowly. The room was dimly lit, and she could still see the remnants of his outburst after…

Daisy still wasn’t sure if she was glad May stopped her that night, or if she wished she hadn’t. Seeing the mild destruction (had he cleaned up?) she was leaning toward the former. Sometimes you just needed to rage, she got that. She _definitely_ got that. But a tiny selfish part of her had said: _But it's me._

As if her presence was enough to help him out. Maybe she was presumptuous because of the way it had worked for her. Coulson’s presence, even when he was barely there, was enough to make her feel better on most occasions. Even throughout this mess. Even with HYDRA banging down the doors and the terrible pain in her head as the portal was held open, even knowing that the team--on their instruction-- was going to blow the whole place apart in seconds. Even when she could see the smallest hint of panic in Mack’s eyes, Coulson flew out of that portal like a rag doll and she was _thrilled_.

It wasn’t until halfway through their trip up to the jet, sitting across the pod from him, failing to get him to meet her eyes, that she realized something was wrong.

 _Well, of course something is wrong_ , she’d thought, thinking of the Inhumans and Andrew and Rosalind...but even right after _the event_ , Coulson had been able to meet her eye, though it was a bit chilly.

God, all Daisy had wanted to do was run across the fast-moving pod and wrap her arms around him. But that wasn’t something they could do anymore. She'd thought about _that_ night, how he’d left. How quickly he’d left. How he barely looked her in the eye the next day. She'd thought about his face as she placed her hand over his after Rosalind had died. Would he reject her touch again? She wasn’t sure she could handle that. Instead she'd leaned her head slightly to her right, resting against Mack’s arm lightly. He had looked down at her and patted her on the knee, before the pod docked and they stood up. Coulson seemed to almost deliberately take his time, waiting for her to get up and exit, not risking a face-to-face confrontation. She kept moving.

Lincoln was there, looking at her in a way she declined to categorize because of the guilt that seemed to come with it. _His_ arms were wide open. Their ‘break,’ or whatever that was, seemed to be over. At least in the moment. It was selfish, again, she was always being selfish these days, but she _needed_ the contact. Needed to feel missed, wanted. Like someone would notice if she hadn’t made it back that night.

“I come bearing gifts,” Daisy announced, stepping into the office. Phil was sitting at his desk, looking up at her over an empty glass. “I guess my gift is sort of redundant, then,” she said sheepishly, waving the bottle in his direction.

It was slightly alarming that he had been drinking alone, but it also freed her of the burden of guilt associated with her plan to ply him with alcohol.

_What? Sometimes it helps._

Coulson stared at her for a few beats, enough for her to establish him as just past tipsy, veering toward drunk.

“Mind if I play catch up?”

He nodded, and she twisted the cap off the bottle.

***

“Where’s Campbell?” Phil asked, and Daisy’s head swiveled dramatically towards him from her spot on his desk.

(He’d _offered_ a chair. Gestured toward one.)

“Really?”

He couldn’t fault her for the attitude, in terms of ‘first words in about a week’ they weren’t ideal. But he was feeling a little fuzzy around the edges, like nothing he said could really bite him in the ass because it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

All of this was a fancy way of saying he could be a petty drunk.

And well, the last time he’d seen Daisy she was having a ‘reunion’ with the new guy, so it was sort of fresh in his mind now. _Now he looks happy_ , he’d thought, mystified by the look on the younger man’s face. He couldn’t see Daisy’s from where he had been standing, so that was probably a blessing. Pettily, he noted that, apart from those two, nothing else really seemed to be out of place. Nothing knocked askew, or shaking under their feet. She was, in a way, unmoved. Right?

What a thing to linger on, after everything he’d done. Phil couldn’t tell if he was making himself feel better or worse. Distracting himself again, or finally forcing himself to confront it.

Instead of answering her he simply poured another drink, obliging her as well when she held out her own glass.

_You weren’t kidding about catching up._

It was nice though, not drinking alone. Even if it was riskier. He looked up at Daisy, perched on his desk, drinking his scotch, thinking, _How dare you?_

Not directed at her, of course, never her. How dare _he_ let this happen? Let her sit there, happy enough in his presence, with who he was. With what he’d done. She had no idea.

“Do you have any other questions?” She asked, taking a sip. Her voice was slurring ever so slightly, at the point of drunkenness where your tongue isn’t quite up to speed with your brain.

_Don’t think about her tongue._

That made it worse, so he took another swift drink. “How’s Mack doing?” _That_ he actually cared about, and was curious. Should he feel bad for shoving the responsibility on Mack? Or was it, as he hoped, the right move?

“Director Mackenzie is good,” she said, then laughed quietly to herself. “He hates it when we call him that.”

Listening to her laugh was both wondrous and painful, a reminder of the fact that he was not only missing her, but moments and jokes with the team. _His_ team, not too long ago.

“It suits him,” she said after a bit, thoughtful. “I don’t think he wants it, but he’s good at it.”

“Better than me?”

Daisy looked down at him, squinting slightly. It was either the drink, or she was trying to figure out if it was a trap.

“Hard to say,” she said finally, swirling the liquid in her glass. “He’s different, but I can’t tell if it’s how he does the job or just--” Daisy paused.

Coulson reached over, pouring more liquid in her glass, which wasn’t actually empty. She seemed like she needed it.

Or he was just trying to bring her to his level.

“Just?”

Daisy sighed. “Mack is Mack, and you’re you,” she said, shrugging.

“No kidding,” he drawled, and Daisy rolled her eyes.

“I just mean, the way I work with Mack and the way I always worked with you, it’s different.” Crossing one leg over the other (Phil hoped he wasn’t watching that for as long as he felt like he was,) she looked up at the ceiling. “The way you and I always were, you being _director_ was totally different.”

Phil frowned. “It was?”

It must have been, because the incredulous face Daisy gave him was astounding. He didn’t feel like he was that different; he’d gotten rid of levels first thing after all.

And there was that whole ‘alien writing’ thing, but that wasn’t related to the change in job description.

“I think it’s a good fit for Mack,” she said simply, looking into her glass.

 _I must be terrible at it._ Not that he would have to be for Mack to be better, but there was something about the way she looked at him, when she talked about him being director.

It wasn’t good. Phil felt like he had disappointed her, over and over again. Maybe a director shouldn’t be desperately seeking the approval of a subordinate. But then again, the moment he stopped doing that was the same moment he relinquished the job title.

“You’re a good guy, Phil,” she said, startling him with a hand on his shoulder. “You just made some shitty choices. We all did. Join the club,” she said, and he could see she was sincere. And also drunk.

“I killed Ward.”

Daisy blinked, slowly, then again, as if she was waking up. “Yeah,” she said, looking at him like he was missing something important. “I know you did. Well, I figured, considering--”

“He was on the ground, and I--” Phil stopped. Why was he telling her this? Why hadn’t he told her this?

_Because she’ll hate me._

He wasn’t sure that was true, but sometimes he felt that way. He thought about Daisy’s face, every time she was ever made to hurt someone. Every time she accidentally caused someone harm. The way it fell, the way her eyes seemed to immediately fill, how her shoulders were burdened with the consequences of what had happened.

None of that happened when he killed Grant Ward. His face didn’t fall, at least he didn’t think. He didn’t feel the weight of ending a life, not until after, when he saw how Fitz looked at him.

_‘We’re not that different, you and me.’_

Coulson looked down at the new prosthetic. It was more advanced, just slightly. The other one had been uncomfortable still, sometimes unwieldy.

He could barely feel a thing with it most of the time.

But he felt _that_.

He felt the _crack_ , he felt Ward’s chest give, the unnatural, dipping void that formed in the center of him.

He could still feel it. Even if the hand wasn’t real, even if he left it on that god forsaken planet.

There had been so many times he’d wished for even the slightest bit of sensation in it. When placing a hand on May’s arm in brief, unobtrusive consolation. When opening that last bottle of wine, an attempt at normalcy.

When Daisy reached across the table, a short distance that felt like miles. That instant he realized she was the first to deliberately touch the foreign, cold extremity, and he couldn’t even feel it. He couldn’t acknowledge it for bigger reasons, but the fact that he couldn’t even feel the warmth of her hand there felt terribly unfair.

And in turn he had to be unfair to her.

“Fitz said you guys had a struggle and then--”

“He was down, neutralized, and I _ended_ _it_.”

Daisy said nothing, and Phil couldn’t bear to look at her, to see her face just then. She had done what he couldn’t, before. She found mercy and compassion in a moment when her life was at risk. And it wasn’t even her hand on the trigger. She could have done it to protect herself, simply done _nothing_ , and she chose not to.

Why had he done it? To protect people? Or did he get satisfaction from it, from ending the life of someone who had caused him and his team so much pain? Rosalind had crossed his mind in that moment. He wondered now how she would have felt about that, about being the last thing he thought about before he did the deed. He didn’t know her very well--he thought he’d have more time-- but he didn’t think she would have liked that.

Daisy certainly wouldn’t have. He remembered her face that day as she climbed out of the SHIELD van; shocked, horrified, having just seen Ward shoot Thomas Nash. _For her,_ supposedly.

He looked up at Daisy, preparing himself for her sad eyes, her disappointment. She was staring at him.

After a few beats of them just watching each other, her shoulders bobbed up and down in an unexpected shrug.

“He was trying to kill you, _and_ Fitz, _and_ trying to bring an evil alien to earth,” she said, so reasonable.

“But he was _down_ , and--”

“And how many times has he gotten back up?” Daisy looked around the room, sighing. “Phil, I shot him four times in the chest, and he still managed to kill a bunch of people, and _hijack_ Agent Palamas.”

 _It wasn’t the same_ , he told himself. “You wouldn’t have done it,” he said, and hurt immediately spread over Daisy’s face.

“Okay, well,” she muttered, standing up on wobbly legs. “This was a bad idea.”

“Daisy--” Phil began but she shook her head.

“Talk to me tomorrow, when you’re not like...this,” she said, tired. “If you’re not like this.” She walked toward the door, but turned around when she reached it. “I get grieving, believe me, Phil. But if this is because of Ward?” Daisy leaned against the door jamb. “Don’t think for a second we didn’t want him dead too.” She shrugged, her shoulders heavy. “You’re just the only one who was able to finish the job.”

As she turned to leave Phil stood up. “Daisy.” She must have realized how pathetic he sounded, because she turned around. “ _Please_.”

_Don’t leave me._

He was too drunk to be having this conversation, too raw. He should just let her leave and end his humiliation, rather than risk keep talking and ruining everything. But her eyes got that big watery look and she came back over and he let her.

***

They sit on the floor eventually, in front of his desk. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but Daisy could feel the warmth radiating off of him. _You’re both drunk, a little lean to the left could totally be an accident._

But she stayed put, she didn’t want to ruin it. There were some silent periods, but apart from those this was the most she had talked to Coulson in a long time. They talked about some stupid stuff, sure. How he wanted to stain that crappy wooden desk in the corner, and how he couldn’t figure out why the kitchen was so drafty. How good Mack was at video games whereas Hunter was so bad it wasn’t even fun for Daisy to beat him.

And yet it was interspersed with these little personal details. The desk reminds him of one his mom had in her room; Daisy doesn’t mind the chilly kitchen because it makes it so much cozier when someone cooks or bakes; how video games became a sort of coping mechanism after rougher missions.

She was talking about the amazing pies at her favorite diner when Daisy saw him wince. “What? What’s wrong?” She racked her brain, before she made a connection. “Is this about Ward again? Because I’m not letting him ruin Ruthie’s strawberry rhubarb pie.” Daisy tilted her head. “I don’t even think the cook’s name is actually Ruthie. No, it’s not,” she muttered, her inebriation really hitting her. 

“What?” Coulson asked, tilting his head toward hers.

“I took Ward there, after Providence,” she said, frowning. If it wasn’t Ward…

“Jesus,” Coulson muttered, banging his head slightly against the desk. Confused, Daisy just waited. If he wanted to say something-- “Ros--alind took me there,” he said, clumsily switching to her proper name. For whose sake, Daisy wasn’t sure.

“Oh, shit,” Daisy said. Of all the places in LA? She knew it was a great joint, but not exactly high profile. Coulson was looking away now, some faraway point across the office. _You’re losing him._ “I know I said it, and it doesn’t really help or anything, but I am _so_ sorry about that, Phil.” She wasn’t the biggest fan of Price’s tactics, but god, she didn’t deserve to _die_ , especially not by Ward’s hands. _And right in front of Coulson_. She couldn’t imagine. She’d seen her mother have Raina’s throat slit, her father crush her mother’s spine. Trip, turned to dust.

But sitting down to a nice dinner and then--

“I don’t get it,” Coulson said, and Daisy looked over at him. He still seemed to be somewhere else, maybe in that room, maybe somewhere else in his head. “He played us, we didn’t suspect a thing and he learned everything there was to know about us, how to get to us.”

“That’s what he does,” she replied. “ _Did_. He preys on weaknesses. He knows--knew you’re a good person, that hurting someone right in front of you--”

“That’s not it,” he interrupted. “He said, he wanted me to know how it felt, to have someone I care about bleed out in my arms.” Daisy shivered. How could Coulson ever regret killing Ward? Even for a moment?

“But I don’t get it,” Coulson continued, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t just want me to know how it felt,” he said, his voice quiet. “He said that, but I don’t think...he knew _exactly_ what I would do. I would be irrational, I would make mistakes.”

“Because you’re a good person,” Daisy said, turning to look at him. Coulson shook his head.

“Because he saw me do it before.”

Unbidden from the back of her mind, the “Clairvoyant’s” whispering, mechanical voice floated through her head. Mocking Coulson with what he had ‘seen.’ What _Ward_ had seen, firsthand.

“He did it again,” Coulson mumbled, “he already knew I knew how that felt, it wasn’t some kind of--of _justice_ for Agent Palamas.”

They’d never talked about it, that he had been the one to find her. She certainly didn’t expect to talk about it now. It made her feel a little nauseous, the idea that Ward might have used her near-murder as some sort of inspiration for Rosalind’s. Daisy pushed that thought away. The more you tried to understand Ward’s way of thinking, the worse you felt. She’d been down that road many times.

“You can’t seriously be upset about killing him,” Daisy said flatly, but Phil didn’t say anything. She tried to take a sip of her drink, only to find her glass empty. _When did that happen?_ Turning to ask Phil to pass the bottle--she seemed to remember him having it last-- Daisy’s eyes widened. His eyes were red, but not from the booze. It took her a moment to connect that with the wet tracks trailing down his cheeks, but--

“Oh my god,” Daisy muttered, moving clumsily to her knees. “No no no,” she said. Her hands moved wildly around Coulson’s frame, unwilling to touch him in case that wasn’t what he wanted. He was _crying_. _Coulson_ was crying and she was way too drunk to handle it. Apparently just realizing what was happening, Coulson hastily tried to wipe his eyes.

“M’fine,” he mumbled, clearly not fine.

“Oh god, Coulson.” Daisy willed herself to sober up, wishing so much that it worked like it did in the movies. “I don’t--” she looked around the office, as if there was some magical cure for Coulson’s tears just sitting around on a shelf somewhere. She placed a hand on his shoulder absentmindedly, wondering if there were at least tissues or something when she felt him flinch away.

Daisy winced. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, backing away. She tried to tell herself not to let that hurt as much as it did, but it was a useless effort.

“Everyone,” she heard Phil say, his face in his hands.

“What?”

“I put everyone at risk,” he repeated, his voice raw in a way she hadn’t ever heard. “If you’re near me--”

Daisy had an unwilling moment of deja vu. It wasn’t pleasant, and she wasn’t happy Coulson was feeling it, but this was at least something she was familiar with. Careful not to touch him, Daisy sat back on her heels, before losing her balance and falling back on her ass. She felt like a jerk, but she was happy for a second he at least hadn’t seen that.

“Coulson,” she called, crossing her legs in front of her. “ _Coulson_.”

Phil wiped his eyes again, uselessly, not looking at her but at least looking up from the floor.

“Everyone who has ever loved me has suffered,” Daisy said bluntly. She could practically see his gears turn, the protest form in his mind. “It’s true. My parents, Trip, all of you, really, everyone.” She sighed. “Hell, probably some people who didn’t even like me that much.” Daisy cringed, hoping he didn’t read into that. _I didn’t mean her._

Or did she?

After all, who else would had killed Rosalind but Grant Ward? Of course it was him. The person she’d failed to rid the world of twice, screwing up so badly that Coulson had to be the one to do it. She had imagined him in target practice for months, how had he still gotten up after that? But he did, and his trail of destruction continued. He was the embodiment of her curse, wasn’t he? A member of HYDRA, the organization that had torn her family apart. He followed her, stuck to her like glue until he found someone else to torment, someone who didn’t even realize it. And yet he still continued to hurt her, awaken her powers, hurt everyone she cared about. No matter how much she tried to suppress it, tried to focus on more important things, she had almost begun to resign herself to a life haunted by Grant Ward.

_Not anymore._

Daisy started, jarred by the feeling of Coulson leaning against her heavily. For a moment she worried he had passed out, but when she looked down she saw his hand scrabbling against the floor, then her knee, searching. Daisy tentatively grabbed it with her own, wrapping her other arm around his shoulders until his face was pressed against her neck. It was scratchy with days-old beard and wet with tears, nearly unrecognizable, but somehow still Coulson.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, "I'm so sorry." Daisy shook her head, leaning the two of them back against his desk.

“Me too.”

***

“You look like hell,” Mack said, glancing over his shoulder as he stood at the espresso machine. “I take it you’re going to want a couple of these?”

“Yes _please_ ,” Daisy said, sitting at the kitchen island and letting her cheek rest against the cool surface of the table. She listened as Mack pulled the espresso shots, even steamed up some milk and she sighed in contentment.

_Coffee first. Thinking later._

She wasn’t sure how much time passed, but she felt the smooth vibrations of the cup sliding across the table in front of her. “Thank you,” she mumbled without looking up, hearing Mack grumble his response. Then she felt him pause.

“Good morning,” he said, and if she wasn’t sure her head would explode, Daisy would have shot up to see who he was talking to.

Not that she didn’t already know.

Instead she sat up slowly, finally upright by the time Coulson sat on top of the stool next to hers. That Mack didn’t tell Coulson he also looked like hell didn’t make it any less of a fact. Daisy wasn’t sure what she expected. That, when he did finally emerge, he would be clean-shaven and bright eyed and immaculately dressed?

_Not after last night._

Not after drinking themselves into a depressed stupor, falling asleep on his office floor and waking up to the blinding light shining through the too many windows of his office.

Nope, Coulson looked just right for that. Daisy imagined she wasn’t much better, minus the stubble.

“Director,” Coulson replied, and Daisy and Mack both turned and stared. Coulson rubbed his eyes--

( _Because he’s tired_ , Daisy reminded herself…) which allowed her and Mack to share a look.

 _Is he…?_ Mack seemed to ask, and Daisy shrugged. Shaking his head, Mack looked at Coulson curiously. “Latte, Agent Coulson?” He seemed a bit uncomfortable, but if there was anyone else Daisy trusted to handle Coulson it was Mack.

“No, no thank you,” Phil said. “Is there any regular coffee?”

“Fresh pot,” Mack replied, grabbing his own mug. Coulson nodded, standing up slowly. “Do you want me to--?”

“I’ve got it,” Coulson answered. Not sharp, just tired. “As you were.” Daisy saw a relieved smile form on Mack’s face.

“Copy that,” he said, saluting the two of them with his mug before walking out of the kitchen.

Daisy watched as Coulson grabbed a mug from the cabinet and poured himself a cup of coffee. Vaguely she wondered if he was worried about anyone else walking in, maybe someone he wouldn’t like seeing him like this. But he didn’t seem very concerned; sitting down again with a heavy sigh instead of trudging back to his office, so she let it go.

“So,” Daisy began, but took Coulson’s loud groan as a hint to maybe not continue. “Gotcha,” she said instead, taking a sip of her latte. _Oh that’s the good stuff._

“Sorry,” Coulson muttered, resting his cheek on his hand, as if he was having a hard time keeping his head upright. “It’s not you, it’s the--”

“Pounding head, nausea, bright lights and regret?” Daisy finished, and Coulson nodded. “Yup,” Daisy said, and it was weird but she had to admit it was kind of nice. Worrying about all those physical sources of pain and discomfort allowed them to be miserable together in a way that, you know, didn’t result in crying in a heap on the floor.

“Not an espresso person?” She asked instead, and Coulson sipped his coffee slowly.

“Not a milk person,” he answered. “And espresso alone makes me jittery.”

Daisy raised an eyebrow. “What? The uncontrollable shaking is half the fun,” she joked, and he let out something that sounded like a snort.

“Maybe for you.”

Daisy smirked, jabbing him lightly with her elbow for some reason. Coulson nudged back and she could feel a smile begin to spread over her face.

“Listen,” Coulson said quietly after a while, and Daisy turned to face him. He was looking into his cup, serious. “About--”

“Please don’t apologize, or ask me to forget about it, or tell me how much you regret all of it,” she said in a rush, but Coulson held up a hand.

“Listen,” he said again, but it was more of a gentle request than an order. Daisy nodded. “Thank you,” he said, finally looking her in the eyes. He looked tired, and sad, of course, but far better than the night before.

Daisy waited.

“Wait is that it?”

Not that she was looking for more or anything, but it seemed sort of...abrupt?

She watched Coulson, waiting for something else, anything to see if she was missing out on something important, when she saw his mouth twitch into the smallest of smiles. Letting out a sigh of relief, Daisy slumped to the side, leaning her head against his shoulder.

For the first time in weeks, since the last time they were in this kitchen together, she knew her touch wouldn’t be unwelcome. It was strange, but the thought nearly made her start up with the tears all over again.

_That might be the hangover talking._

Next to her she could feel Coulson let out his own deep breath before she felt his hand land in the middle of her back, sliding up to rest over her shoulder, pulling her closer to his side. It was the closest they’d been to a hug in ages, as she preferred not to count their more...intense embrace the night before. And, well, that other time…

This was _nice_. In a different way. In a ‘won’t send him running’ kind of way.

They sipped their coffees, sitting like that in silence, listening to the sounds of the base waking up. When his hand eventually drifted lower, landing at her waist, she was shocked at how natural the move felt. She was almost inclined to do the same when she could feel someone else enter the kitchen.

_Oh boy._

If Lincoln noticed anything amiss in the scene in front of him, he was excellent at not showing it. For approximately ten seconds. His nod and greeting to the two of them was friendly enough, but she could see from the set of his shoulders as he poured some hot water for tea that he wasn’t in a great mood. She could practically see the thoughts running through his head, theories, speculation. They hadn’t been _together_ since the night of the rescue, the distance between them growing again as she realized the state Coulson was in.

But he usually _at least_ knew where she was, most nights. And now here they were.

As Lincoln turned around to walk out, his eyes met Daisy’s. She wasn’t sure what he saw there, but she had some ideas. Here she was, again, focusing on what she needed. And right now she needed this. She needed Coulson, warm and alive --and, okay, kind of a mess-- at her side. But was it selfish? This time she wasn’t sure. Because as his hand didn’t lift from her waist, and as he seemed to pull her marginally closer to him, as if he worried she would pull away, she was pretty sure that Coulson needed it too. He needed her, just as much as she needed him. So did it really matter in the end if they were both somehow cursed?

Because so far, through all the death and destruction, they had manage to survive it together. That had to mean something. 

***

Phil stared at the mirror, long and hard. Turning his face this way and that, he debated. _To shave or not to shave,_ he thought wryly, wiping the mirror with his hand as it fogged up again. A long hot shower had been helpful in clearing his head, and though his muscles still ached from the booze and a night on the cold hard floor, he somehow felt rested.

Walking into his room he jumped a bit, readjusting the towel around his waist. He’d forgotten she was here. How, he had no idea. _I must be really out of it._ But there she was, asleep in his bed. Alive and still rosy-cheeked from her own-- _separate_ \--shower before she had made her way back to his quarters. Moving over to his closet quietly, Phil debated between getting dressed for the day or putting on some sweats and climbing back into bed. But with that came the feel of a phantom hand pulling at his shoulder, the memory of another face staring at him from across the pillow and he couldn’t bear to do that to either of them.

Grabbing a pair of jeans and a button up he walked back into the bathroom and got dressed, eyeing his facial hair critically as the mirror cleared. It was still messy, but if he kept it going he could probably have a decent beard in a couple days. Rubbing a towel over his hair he retreated into the bedroom again.

Daisy must have heard him, because when he stepped into the room she was sitting up, rubbing at her eyes.

“You can sleep,” he told her quietly. “I just…” He looked at the bed and she seemed to understand, catching his gaze. Phil wasn’t sure if he was relieved or unnerved by that.

“Yeah,” she said, but eyed the bed uncertainly. “Do you want me to--”

“No, I meant that. You can stay.” He sat on the edge of the bed, turning back to face her. Daisy sat cross-legged behind him, watching him curiously.

It was silly, really, his hesitation. The situation was so very different, she was _Daisy_ , looking strangely comfortable sitting in his bed in a t-shirt and shorts, as if it was her own. She was unquestionably, without a doubt, unmistakably Daisy, with her roughly dried, curling hair and big brown eyes staring at him like she already knew everything about him.

_She probably does, at this point._

Reaching over slowly, Phil cupped her face with his hand, looking over her face. Not pulling her towards him, or even leaning in, just letting his thumb skate over her cheek as he watched her. He watched her eyebrows lift just a tad, and saw the corners of her mouth curve up into a smile. He saw a look in her eyes he knew well by this point. She was about to laugh at him.

“What?” He asked, feeling a bit self-conscious. Phil moved to pull his hand away, but Daisy held it in place with her own.

“No, nothing,” she said, her voice filled with mirth. “I just--” she shook her head. “I was about to do the same thing,” Daisy finally admitted, almost bashful. Phil looked at her, confused. “Your face,” she explained, reaching up and resting her other hand on his cheek, scratching lightly at his stubble. “This whole _deal_ , here. You stole my move,” she said, smirking.

“You don’t have a beard,” he pointed out, basking in the glow of the glorious eye roll he received.

“No, I do not,” she agreed, leaning into his palm. “Just my face.”

“It’s a very nice face,” Phil murmured, moving in closer. To better see her face, of course.

From up close, he could see her smile even better, but he could also see the hint of doubt in her eyes. “Everything okay?” He asked, stroking his thumb over her cheekbone. He could feel the faintest line there, an old scar from a mission maybe. He had never noticed it before.

Daisy nodded. “Yeah, yeah,” she said, but he could tell there was more to it. “I just--if you’re not ready for this, we can stop.” Phil pulled away, regretting it as he saw the knit form in her brow. “I just can’t let you walk away from me again,” she told him. She wasn’t frustrated, or annoyed, just worried, and he couldn’t exactly blame her.

Keeping his eyes on hers before finally letting them drift closed, Phil pressed his lips against hers. It was everything that first time wasn’t; slow, contemplative and, he hoped, reassuring. This wasn’t just something he needed to happen _right now_ , more like something they had been building to, waiting for.

He could feel Daisy’s mouth open under his, and he pulled her in closer, feeling her arms wrap around his neck tightly. Not desperately, but like she was anchoring him; keeping him where he needed to be, not drifting away again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her ear.

“Good,” he heard her sigh, “that’s _good_.”

Phil raised an eyebrow at her tone. Was she talking just about his intent to stay, or…? Experimentally he kissed behind her ear, grinning as she let out a breathy noise. “Daisy,” he sighed, sliding his lips lower when he heard something else. Over on his bedside table, his watch, cellphone and keys rattled on the wooden surface.

Daisy pulled away quickly and the items ceased their movements. Watching him self-consciously, it looked like Daisy was waiting for him to bolt. Not for the first time, Phil deeply regretted leaving her that night. Running his fingers through her hair, Phil half-smiled.

“Doesn’t take much, huh?”

At that, Daisy seemed to turn a bit red. It wasn’t something he liked to think about, that initial discovery, but he sometimes would allow his ridiculous male pride to enjoy the fact that it did not seem to take much, in _certain_ circumstances. (He could enjoy it much more now, he thought, now that he wasn’t foolishly abandoning her.)

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Daisy said quietly, and Phil felt like a bucket of cold water was dumped on him. Seeing his face, Daisy’s eyes widened. “Not _here_ , Phil, not here.”

Phil let out a breath, reassuring whispers of _‘she’s not leaving, she’s not leaving,’_ flying through his head.

Daisy exhaled heavily, looking up at the ceiling. “Honestly I’m kind of worried though,” she said thoughtfully. “I don’t want to like, bring a building down or anything.” Phil felt her smack his chest, and he realized he had a huge, dopey grin on his face. “This is serious!”

_What was that about male pride?_

“Right, right,” he said, trying to wipe the smile off his face. “Serious stuff. Should I invest in a bunker, or...hey that was a legitimate suggestion!” Phil protested, ducking another bout of light smacking from a very frustrated Daisy. Sighing heavily Daisy flopped back on the bed, Phil gingerly lying down next to her. Staring at the ceiling curiously, Phil tilted his head.

“Is it just the surprise?” He asked. Her powers could be brought on by strong emotions, so he supposed it made sense that it might just be the _newness_ of it, with her newly powered body. After all, she no longer shook the room when she was angry or upset, so maybe this was just another thing she would get a handle on. “Maybe once you get used to it, it will wear off?”

Daisy turned to look at him, and Phil did the same. He was concerned to see her still looking unconvinced. “I don’t know if I’ll _ever_ get used to this,” she told him earnestly, and in that moment, Phil was convinced it was the most beautiful declaration he'd ever get. 

“We’ll--we’ll figure it out,” Phil murmured hurriedly, pulling her on top of him. He needed to kiss her that very second, earthquakes be damned. With Daisy's laughter in his face and her weight on his chest, Phil felt lighter than he had in months.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope this works, hahaha.  
> ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? :P  
> (Obviously all the titles and things are from Hamilton.)


End file.
